


Finished

by l57371



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6649888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l57371/pseuds/l57371
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson's done denying it. House isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finished

“I’m done.”

Wilson stood at the midway point between the glass door to House’s office and the desk. He had just strode in, without a knock or an invitation, planted his feet and crossed his arms and made his pronouncement, a fierce look of determination on his face. His lips pressed thin as he stared down at the slightly startled House.

House paused his typing, his eyebrows raised, and blinked. “Okay, good,” he replied, turning away from his computer and leaning back in his chair. He laced his fingers over his stomach and peered down his nose at the other man. “Are you going to make me ask?”

“You don’t even know, do you?” Wilson asked, an incredulous half-smile gracing his lips as he shook his head slightly. He turned and paced toward the door for a few steps then turned and paced back until he stood directly in front of the desk. House watched him closely, tracking the movement of his expensive shoes. Suddenly Wilson turned and leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms and his ankles, and looked down at the floor. “I had a revelation,” he said casually, not looking up. Weather, baseball, epiphanies, all the same.

“Okay,” House repeated. This was startling. Random Wilson was a Wilson close to the edge, but he had no idea what that edge was or why he was there. Carefully, he watched the rise and fall of Wilson’s shoulders and chest as he breathed, slowly, evenly. Not distressed, not even excited, really. He leaned forward again in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers and placed his lips against the pointers. He glanced sideways, trying to see into Wilson’s face. Pink and dry, no distress there either. “So either tell me or get out. I’m in the middle of a virtual three-way with underage Korean twins.” He made as if to turn back to his computer.

Wilson snorted. “No. You’re not,” he said, enunciating carefully. He looked sideways at House. “And I know why.”

House paused, his hands hovering over his keyboard, and raised an eyebrow.

“You want me to think that the depths of your depravity know no bounds, but I know exactly where those boundaries are.” Wilson said, his face breaking into a smile. “I know you, and I also know what you’re hiding. And that’s why I’m done.” He turned and leaned forward on House’s desk, his hands planted wide on the top, leaning forward.

House’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He closed and opened his mouth one more time, but still no words came. His mind had immediately gone blank at Wilson’s words, and then in a rush caromed in a hundred different directions at once. Of course Wilson know the depths of his depravity, mostly Wilson had gone there with him. A few times Wilson had even been leading. How well Wilson knew him had always been something of a discomfort. It meant that he was there, under House’s skin, along with him, but House had never really been sure if Wilson had wormed his way there without House’s invitation or approval, or if House had actually let him in, and then let him stay. But the really worrisome thing was which secret did Wilson think he knew? House’s mind scrambled for answers.

“Alright, you’ve caught me: I’m a closet accordion player,” House said. Misdirection and absurdity were always good as a standby. “You can stop pretending you don’t see the squeezebox in the hallway now.” He turned his attention back to the screen and lowered his fingers to the keyboard.

Suddenly he was spinning back toward Wilson again, his shirt bunching in Wilson’s fists as the other man lifted him bodily from the chair and pulled him over the desk towards him. House put his arms out and leaned heavily on the top of the desk, his face mere centimeters away from Wilson’s. The surge of adrenalin that had started at the first spin was making itself known in other areas of the body, making his knees shake and a tingle go up the back of his scalp. He could feel Wilson’s breath on his lips and he tried to pull himself out of the other man’s grasp to no avail.

“I’m done pretending, House,” Wilson said in a low growl, leaning even closer so that House went cross-eyed trying to keep the other man in focus. But Wilson wasn’t angry, or at least he didn’t look it. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated so far that they nearly took over the deep cocoa brown of the irises. His lips were curled into a smile, not a snarl. His hands fisted in House’s shirt were firm but not violent. House took a deep breath, tasting Wilson’s exhale as he did. Coffee, cinnamon bun, breath mint.

Wilson leaned forward again, stopping just as his lips brushed against House’s. “I won’t pretend any more,” he whispered, his lips shaping the words right on House’s mouth as he said them. “You want me. I want you. And I won’t pretend I don’t.” With the last word, Wilson’s lips softly pressed against House’s.

His eyes went wide, then slid shut as the sensation of Wilson’s kiss washed over him, further weakening his already questionable knees and making him surge forward into the kiss. Wilson took the opportunity presented and deepened the kiss, tracing the tip of his tongue over House’s parted lips before venturing further inside and sliding against House’s own, counting teeth, mapping palate. Finally he pulled back with a final peck on House’s top lip, then his bottom lip.

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The harsh sound of ragged breathing filled the room and the space between them. Wilson said, “When you’re done pretending too, you know where to find me.” Then he slowly released House’s shirt, smiled, pushed off the desk and left the office, a bounce in his step.

House remained where he was, unable to either sit down or walk away. He was afraid if he let go of the desk he’d end up on the floor, and if he tried to walk he would sprain something vital. The kiss had left him wanting so much more.

Eventually his knees folded and he fell backwards into his chair again. His vision swam before him as his thoughts tumbled and bounced over one another in his head. He raised his hand and touched his fingertips to his tingling, swollen lips. Over and over he replayed the feeling of Wilson’s lips, his tongue, his insistence, until his breathing began to slow and he once more took in his surroundings.

Which included Chase, Cameron and Foreman, wearing identical expressions of shock, wide-eyed and round-mouthed, staring at him through the glass wall of the conference room.

Dammit.

* * *

House stood watching from the hall as Wilson took his tray from the cash register and found himself an empty seat by the windows, sliding into it gracefully and popping a French fry into his mouth. He settled himself and gazed out the window, chewing absently. House shook his head and threaded his way through the busy cafeteria until he reached Wilson’s table.

“You didn’t tell me what it was.” House stood in front of him, both hands balancing him on the cane, shoulders rounded.

Wilson looked up and smiled, the big, real one, the one that crinkled his eyes and rounded his cheeks. He picked up a fry. “No, I didn’t. You’re right.” He crammed the fry in his mouth and smiled while chewing.

His lips thinned in annoyance, House dropped heavily into the seat opposite his friend. He yanked the tray toward himself, nearly upsetting the open cup of coffee on it, and snagged a handful of fries for himself. He took a deep breath and began, “I don’t know what it is you _think_ you know-”

Wilson cut him off by leaning over the table conspiratorially. “I don’t think I know,” he said in a low voice, “I know I know.” His dark eyes bored directly into House’s, gaze never wavering. The low tone of his voice sent a small thrill up House’s spine.

“You don’t know anything,” House retorted, almost on autopilot. Wilson’s lips stretched into a smug grin as he rose to a stand and leaned further over the table, placing his mouth directly by House’s ear.

“I know everything,” he whispered breathily, lips brushing the shell of House’s ear as he spoke and breath wafting hotly over his cheek. House tilted his head and bared his neck slightly, his eyes drifting shut completely against his will. Wilson continued: “I know you dreamt about me, and I know just how good a dream it was.” He dropped his head a little and let his lips drift over the tendon standing out in House’s neck from the angle. “Want to tell me all the little details? I already know how it would have ended.”

House’s mind immediately slammed back to the night in question. He vividly remembered now what had happened. After a good meal of Mexican take out, Corona and some recorded episodes of _Mythbusters_ , House had fallen asleep still sitting on the chesterfield, while Wilson cleaned up the dinner mess in the kitchen. The dream he had fallen into had been no different then any of a thousand others he’d had over the years. Impressions of lips on his, dragging over his skin; large, strong hands with soft skin stroking up his arms and across his chest, down his belly; a hot tongue mapping the hills and valleys of his body. Suddenly the chesterfield had moved and he’d been startled awake to find Wilson on the other end, settling in with two bottles of beer in his hand, eyes trained on the television. House had shifted in an attempt to hide the prominent bulge in his jeans and reach for the second beer at the same time, and at the time had been fairly sure he’d gotten away with it.

Now it seemed that maybe he hadn’t.

He didn’t remember saying Wilson’s name out loud, but he must have done. Wilson wouldn’t be so cock sure about it if he didn’t have evidence to back it up.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” House said, eyes resolutely on the tray in front of him.

Wilson straightened and smiled down at him. “Of course not,” he said, lips still curling at the corners into a smirk House was sure he recognized as his own. “But I know what you were talking about.” He snatched one last fry from the cold mound on the tray and popped it into his mouth, then turned on his heel and strode out of the cafeteria, leaving House to stare after him.

It was another ten minutes before he could safely get up to leave himself, and for the second time that day House regretted not indulging in an early morning shower jerk to take off the edge.

* * *

Wilson was thankfully absent from his office, making the rounds of his patients, House assumed, so House took refuge on his balcony, staring absently out over the entrance and into the parking lot adjacent.

This was bad. So bad he could barely contemplate it. And not just for the usual reasons either. If Wilson knew that House was lusting after him now, could he guess that it had been going on as long as he’d known the younger man? Would Wilson start second-guessing everything House had ever done in the light of the new knowledge? House had already done enough of that for both of them anyway, meticulously going over each and every word and action looking for a tell, a giveaway, a hint that there was more going on in House’s mind than the simple friendship he presented it as. And if Wilson decided that there was more, would he be hurt to find that the friendship was not so much a friendship as it was a courtship?

But the worst part of it was that when it went south, and it would, House knew, he wouldn’t be losing Wilson-his-friend, he’d be having and then losing Wilson-his-lover, and that would kill him, possibly quite literally.

It couldn’t happen, it was that simple. Letting Wilson find out that any of it was in fact real, and that it wasn’t even terribly new, was out of the question. If he found out, Wilson would be hurt and would leave, and House couldn’t have that.

No, better to let him believe he was wrong about the whole thing. House could manage that, could misdirect and subvert and lie with the best of them. As much as it would hurt to miss out on what he fantasized about regularly, it would have to be done, or lose Wilson forever.

House levered himself to his feet dejectedly and shuffled into his office. He jumped visibly when he saw Wilson reclining in his office chair, watching him approach. He rose smoothly from the chair and stepped close, broaching House’s space and leaving only millimeters between them.

House froze as Wilson raised his hand and drew the backs of his knuckles softly over House’s cheek, tracing the line of stubble down his neck and under his chin. “Finished brooding?” he asked softly.

Taking a deep breath, House stepped back and away from Wilson’s warmth. Resolutely silent, he picked up his backpack, pivoted on the axis of his cane and stepped around Wilson and stumped his way to the door. Then he was through and gone.

He couldn’t help himself; he looked back over his shoulder just as he was almost out of sight of the glass walls. Wilson still stood where he was, watching House’s departure, face expressionless.

* * *

The roar of the motorcycle echoed in the empty street, bouncing back to him from darkened windows and locked doors. Four hours and two tanks of gas since he had left the hospital and his mind still roiled with the ideas and possibilities and the utter impossibility of it all. Usually a good long ride would blow the cotton from his brain and leave him thinking clearly, but it was not to be. If anything, he was more frustrated than when he took off.

He wandered the streets randomly, taking a left, a right, a left, another right until he found himself approaching a familiar parking lot. His not so random course had taken him directly to Wilson’s front door, or at least his hotel’s visitor parking. House bypassed the turn and went around the block, then did it again. The third circuit brought him back to the driveway and this time he flipped on his signal and pulled into the lot.

House pulled into a handicap spot close to the door and balanced carefully on his right foot while he kicked down the stand, leaning the bike over and flipping off the key. For a moment he just sat, listening to the engine tick, staring at the odometer on the cluster, vision blurring. Then he looked up, counting floors, to find the seventh, looking at all the lighted windows, and wondered which one was Wilson’s. He of course knew the room number but had never actually visited.

Finally he swung himself off the bike, plucked his cane from its holder and made his way through the front door and into the brightly lit lobby. He painted a bland smile on his face and prepared to weave a story for the bored night clerk who sat staring at the computer and moving the mouse around lazily.

_Probably playing solitaire_ , he thought, approaching the desk. The clerk looked up.

“Hi, I’m Doctor House-” he began, but the clerk cut him off.

“Oh, sure!” she chirped, smiling brightly. “Just a minute, I have your key card right here.” She turned to the back wall where the old fashioned cubby holes were mounted, plucking a small envelope from one of them. “Here you go! Doctor Wilson said you’d be looking for it.” Her smile turned quizzical. “It’s been waiting here for you for a long time, though.”

House took a moment to catch up. “Doctor Wilson left this key card here? For me?”

“Oh yeah, ages ago,” she replied. “When he first came to stay with us.” House frowned down at the key card then back up at the clerk. “Do you want me to call him…?”

“No, that’s fine,” House said quickly, smiling again. “Absolutely not necessary. I’ll just go see him myself.” He turned and made his way to the elevators, poking at the button with the butt of his cane. The elevator dinged and the door opened, House entered and the door swished shut behind him.

There were mirrors on the walls of the elevator and House found himself staring into his own visage. His face was pale, paler than usual, his eyes wide, his lips thin and white. He looked terrified. It was then that he realized he had no idea what he was doing.

Why was he here? What did he even intend to say? House, who usually did not make a move without considering every possible outcome, stood in the elevator and quietly panicked. The door opened onto the bland, noiseless seventh floor and he stepped out. His footsteps were muted thumps on the thick carpet of the hallway as he made his way to room 715.

He stood in front of the door and breathed quietly through his nose, mentally beginning sentences and then stopping and starting another. A woman walked past behind him and watched him as she went. House looked up and gave her a quick nod. She smiled and kept going. He raised his hand and knocked.

And knocked again.

And again.

No answer. House strained to listen, trying to detect the sounds of a television or shower, but he could hear nothing from the room within. He pulled the keycard out of the little paper envelope and slid it into the mechanism. The light turned green and he slowly pushed down the lever and opened the door. The room was dark save for the light spilling in from the hall, the bed made, no clothes or jackets or briefcases or shoes or signs that anyone had been in there since the maid. The bathroom door was open and it was dark as well.

Wilson wasn’t even here. House blew out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding and felt the rush as the adrenaline left his body, knees becoming weak and watery, heart thumping in his chest.

With one last look around, House turned and left, letting the door whisper shut on its pneumatic hinge, not even hearing the click of the bolt sliding home as he entered the elevator.

* * *

Again House cruised the dark, deserted streets on his bike, his mind churning over and over the events of the day; what could be, what could have been, and what could never _ever_ come to pass chasing around and around like a hound after a fox. Eventually he turned a corner and found his own street stretching out ahead of him. Defeated, he aimed for his own front stoop.

Pulling his bike up onto the sidewalk, he saw his own lights on, shining warmly out his windows, a welcome home that shouldn’t have been there. House’s heart picked up again. Wilson had to be here.

Hastily he kicked out the stand and dropped the bike on it, wrestling himself off the bike and yanking his cane out of its clips. He hurried up the stairs, through the front door and before he could rethink it, he had his keys in his hand and was unbolting his own door.

Wilson lay on the sofa, asleep. He had one arm crooked behind his head and the other lay lax over his stomach. One foot was on the floor, the other was flat on the sofa cushion, his knee up and resting against the back. As House stepped closer he could see the twitch in Wilson’s pale blue eyelids that said he was dreaming. Suddenly, as if he knew he was being watched, Wilson opened his eyes, blinked and smiled.

“Finally,” he said, his voice sleep roughened.

House turned and limped back toward the door, pulling off his jacket and dropping it and his helmet onto the floor of the closet. “You should go home,” he said, speaking to the hangers.

“I’d rather be here.”

“You can’t be here,” House replied. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”

“Yes, there is,” Wilson said, his voice sounding much closer. House turned and found the other man directly behind him. He hadn’t even heard the movement.

“Look, I know you think you know some-” House began, his eyes darting around the room, alighting on nothing in particular.

“I know. I know what I know, I told you that,” Wilson interrupted him. “I know you want me.” He took another step closer, close enough to touch.

“No you don’t,” House said, sidestepping around Wilson and heading for the kitchen.

“House,” Wilson said, turning to follow, “stop running already. I know...”

“You know nothing!” House yelled, turning to face his pursuer. “You only get a little tiny piece of the puzzle and think you know the whole story, but you don’t! You have NO idea what I want or what I think.”

Wilson merely held up his hands in surrender and smiled. “So tell me what I don’t know then. I never claimed to be you. I’ll accept a little outside perspective.”

House was a little startled by the lack of argument. He blinked and felt the fight drain out of him, leaving him tired, defeated. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied, voice low, eyes down. “Go home, Wilson.” He turned and resumed his flight to the kitchen.

“It does matter.” This time House heard the footsteps of the man approaching from behind. “I won’t pretend any more, I told you that. Why can’t you stop pretending too?”

House stopped walking. He reached out and laid a hand on the kitchen doorjamb and let his head fall forward, chin on his chest. He swallowed and tried to quell the churning in his stomach. “I’m not pretending. There’s nothing to pretend about. Go _home_ , Wilson.”

“Bullshit,” Wilson snorted. House turned and found the man standing behind him again, arms crossed, a vaguely amused half-smile on his face. “I know you’re not afraid of what other people will think, and I know you’re not afraid of me seeing you, hell I’ve cathetered you. So tell me why you’re so afraid so that I can tell you you’re being silly about it and then we can get on with the good stuff.” He raked his eyes down House’s body and back up again appreciatively.

“Stop that,” House muttered, his face heating.

“No,” Wilson whispered, stepping closer until there was only a breath of space between them. “Not until you tell me what’s going on in that convoluted brain of yours.” House was mesmerized by the movement of Wilson’s lips until he felt the tug of Wilson’s hands at the small of his back, pulling him gently closer and flush with the younger man’s body. His eyes slid closed at the feel of the hard planes of Wilson’s body matching up with his, thigh to thigh, belly to belly, chest to chest. Lip to lip.

Wilson’s lips ghosted over House’s so softly he wasn’t even quite sure it had happened. Without even realizing he leaned forward as if to catch Wilson before he got away, seeking another kiss. “Told you,” Wilson whispered, then moved forward and into the kiss, harder this time, demanding, exploring. Lips parted and tongues touched, and Wilson’s arms tightened around House’s waist. Eventually the need for oxygen prevailed and Wilson pulled back slightly, a sighed “yeah” wafting over House’s lips.

House blinked. “No.”

“Dammit, House!” Wilson shouted, jerking backwards and turning way, running a hand through his hair. “What the fuck is the matter? This is too important to fuck up just because you want to be contrary!”

“Exactly,” House said, eyes trained on the floor. “This is too important to fuck up.”

Wilson turned and stared into House’s face for a moment, and then the light dawned. “You’re not afraid of a relationship with me,” he said accusingly, hands on his hips. “You’re afraid of a relationship with me that doesn’t last. You’re afraid of losing me.” He held one hand out and approached again. “House-”

“I can’t…” House began, his voice breaking as his breath hitched in his chest. “I can’t lose…”

“No, you can’t,” Wilson said softly, grasping House’s biceps and holding tight. “How long have we known each other? How many times have you tried to push me away? How many times have I tried?” His face broke into a sunny grin and he chuckled quietly. “Face it House, we’re stuck with each other. I can’t fathom any situation that would make me want to leave you for good. Temporarily, sure, I have those every day.”

House snorted. Wilson’s smile widened.

“There is nothing you could do to lose my friendship,” Wilson insisted, crowding close and whispering intensely. “Nothing that would make me stop loving you.”

House shook his head slightly and refused to look up. “But what if-”

“‘What if’ nothing, House,” Wilson said, shaking House’s arms lightly to gain his attention. “All this time I’ve been thinking about you, wanting you, and knowing that it was never going to happen, only to find out that you wanted me too. I knew it could never be and then that night, all of a sudden, I found out. It might be. It _could_ be. _We_ could be.” He let go of House’s arms and wrapped his own around House’s waist, burying his face in House’s neck. “I’m not going to let you ‘what if’ your way out of it now.” He laid a soft kiss on the pulsing vein in House’s throat, then another just above, then another above that.

“God,” House whispered, leaning his head to the side to give Wilson better access. He felt the smile in Wilson’s lips against the skin of his throat, felt the heat radiating off the other man as he pressed close, felt the hardness rubbing against his thigh.

“Come on,” Wilson rasped, backing away and tugging on House’s waistband by the belt loops. House stumbled forward, trying to get his cane beneath him, only to feel Wilson’s arms go back around him, holding him up. House looked up, startled, into Wilson’s dark eyes and saw the warmth in them, the love and understanding, and felt the levee break. He grasped the sides of Wilson’s face and brought their lips together, hard and demanding, claiming, owning.

A twinge in his thigh and an ache in his back brought him back to the living room and his verticality. Wilson was still sucking light kisses onto his bottom lip, his large hands splayed wide across House’s back, holding him up, pulling him close.

“Come on, House,” Wilson repeated, and House followed, using Wilson for support and guidance, all the way down the hall and into his bedroom.

Once inside, Wilson maneuvered House until he was standing in front of the bed, then kissed him again, this time letting his hands wander. House returned the favour, pulling Wilson’s shirt out of his pants and letting his still-chilled hands roam over the expanse of warm flesh of Wilson’s back. Wilson made a low sound deep in his throat and pushing closer to House, then pulled back again to remove House’s t-shirt. He let it drop to the side and ran his hands over House’s chest, down his belly.

“Just like my dream,” House whispered, eyes shut as he reveled in the sensation of the soft, warm hands on his torso.

“Tell me,” Wilson whispered back, his hands traveling up and over House’s shoulders, down his back, over his biceps.

“Just like this,” House said, his head falling back and baring his throat. “You, touching me.”

“Mmm,” Wilson hummed, exploring further and running his fingers under the waistband of House’s jeans.

House fumbled at the buttons of Wilson’s button-down but couldn’t get his fingers to cooperate. Wilson chuckled softly and grabbed hold of House’s fingers, stepping back slightly. “Okay, wait a minute.” House looked up, eyes wide. “Stay right there,” Wilson ordered.

Deftly he began unknotting his tie and undoing his own buttons, shrugging off the shirt and peeling off his undershirt, then reached for his belt. House’s mouth went dry as his eyes were dragged down Wilson’s torso, his gaze pinned at the sight of Wilson’s pants parting and dropping along with his sensible grey underwear. He kicked them off and House poked his tongue out to wet his lips at the sight of Wilson’s hard, flushed cock bobbing with the motion.

For a moment Wilson merely stood, letting House fill his gaze with Wilson’s body, his pale skin, the definition of his muscles. He couldn’t help himself, he had to reach out and touch, drag his finger tips from collar bone to hip bone and feel the smoothness of the flesh, the prickle of chest hair, the solidity of bone.

Then Wilson stepped close again, looked him straight in the eye, and began working on House’s own belt and button, working them open and sliding the jeans off his hips. Keeping his gaze pinned on House’s, he dropped to his knees and carefully slid the fabric over the scarred tissue of his thigh. He pushed them until they fell in a puddle around House’s feet, then pushed until House sat back on the bed, bouncing a little as he landed. He pulled his own feet out of the tangled fabric and kicked them aside.

Wilson rose to his feet and crowded into House, pushing until House spread his knees so Wilson could step in between them. House felt Wilson’s fingers pulling his chin upward and he raised his eyes to Wilson’s face. He crowded further into House and nudged him backwards to lie down on the bed, then followed him down, crawling up House’s body as House levered himself all the way up to lie flat.

For a moment they lay there together, bodies close, breaths shared, eyes locked. Then House raised his head just a little and met Wilson’s lips with his own, delicately touching, barely moving. His eyes slid closed and his hands rose of their own accord, coming up around Wilson’s back and shoulders, pulling him close and tight. Wilson complied, lowering his weight onto House’s chest and stomach, kissing him deeply. He shifted his weight and used a bent knee to move House’s legs apart, then dropped his hips between House’s parted thighs.

And House’s mind went completely white. The feel of Wilson’s hard penis sliding against his own set off sparks behind his closed eyelids and House had to break away from the kiss just to remember how to breathe. Wilson, undeterred, kissed his way down House’s jaw to his throat, under his chin and then back up the other side, panting into House’s ear as his hips rocked and thrust against House. His hands alternated holding up his weight and stroking over House’s skin, down his sides and back up over his stomach, over his chest and up his throat to cup House’s chin in his broad palm while he dragged his lips over House’s overheated flesh.

House lost himself in the feel of Wilson’s hard cock sliding and rubbing against his, smearing the droplets of sweat and pre-come on them both and creating a slick slide of skin. He felt the spark of orgasm climbing up his legs and arms, shivering through his muscles and meeting in his lower back, felt it grow and heat up, felt it start to take over. He groaned in frustration, trying to hold it off as long as he could, not wanting to let this go, and dug his fingers into Wilson’s strong shoulders, holding on, holding out.

He became aware of Wilson whispering in his ear, picking words out of the grunts and moans.

“Thought it was just some random dream, but you said my name,” Wilson said, voice strangled and nearly lost amidst the harsh gasping breaths and slap of skin on skin. House felt a shudder go through Wilson’s back and a gasping groan floated over his harsh exhale.

“House,” Wilson gasped, “House, say my name.”

“Wils-,” he whispered, his voice thick with unvoiced desire, breaking. He took a breath and tried again. “James…”

Wilson stopped moving, muscles tensed and straining, body vibrating with the tension, then moaned low in his throat as his hips thrust raggedly against House’s, coating both of them in his hot, viscous come, grunting sighs accompanying each pulse.

The heat threatened once more to take over, and this time House let it go, letting the last of Wilson’s come spurting over the head of his cock push him to the edge and beyond. The smooth glide of Wilson’s dick slipping over the head of his own combined with the hot breath in his ear and the unmistakable scent of Wilson thick in his nose had his testicles drawing up tightly and releasing, his hips jerking, spurting gouts of thick fluid up his stomach to join with Wilson’s.

His hands tightened on Wilson’s back, fingers digging into shoulder muscles and holding on. Desperately he twisted his head to the side, trying to catch Wilson’s lips in a kiss.

Wilson was still talking. “Come on, House, yeah, god, yeah.” House silenced him with his own lips, a wet, sloppy, hungry kiss that mellowed into a slow press of lips as the adrenaline waned.

Eventually his heart rate slowed and the sweat on his skin cooled him as it dried. He got suddenly colder when Wilson slid off of him to lay at his side. His skin pebbled and residual shudders went through him as Wilson’s hand stroked slowly and lightly up his torso and down his side, up his arm and over his chest.

“You’re making a mess,” House rasped.

Wilson chuckled and trailed a finger through the cooling fluid on House’s belly. “We both made a mess.”

“You’re making it bigger.”

Wilson raised himself up onto his elbow and looked House in the face. “So you’re the only one who can take something small and make a big deal out of it?”

House’s eyebrows drew together and his mouth dropped open a little, not quite sure of where Wilson was going.

“You turned one very small, very slight possibility that I would leave you after this, which by the way was so small as to be infinitesimal, and made it a huge roadblock and the reason why we could never.” Wilson said, cupping House’s face and turning it so they were only inches apart. “I told you I wanted this, and I still do. So stop being an idiot and kiss me. Then we’ll eat and do it again.”

House stared for a moment, then the corner of his mouth twitched up into a lopsided almost-there smile. He raised his head the last little bit and kissed Wilson, a slow, lingering exploration. His hand crept up to cup the back of Wilson’s head, drawing him closer and back down with him as he settled back onto the pillow. He turned over onto his side, lining his body back up with Wilson’s, and hung on.

Eventually he pulled back and waited for Wilson’s eyes to flutter open and focus on him.

He asked, “Who needs to eat?” And went back to kissing Wilson.

 


End file.
